


Who would notice?

by thebadwolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Guilt, Hurt Sherlock, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebadwolf/pseuds/thebadwolf
Summary: Sherlock is a self-harmer who thinks he can hide his problem from the world. Of course, that's hard to do when you live with a doctor. John finds out and does everything he can to make it better.Warning: This might trigger you if you are/have been a self-harmer.





	1. All alone

Sherlock knew he was in trouble if John ever found out. Well, _maybe_ not trouble. He knew John would be worried. He would want him to get help. 

 

He didn’t want help. He **needed** help but he didn’t want it. 

 

His doctor didn’t want him using drugs. He gave them up but he wasn’t giving up the thing that helped him get through life.

 

John was at work and Rosie was down for her afternoon nap. It was the perfect time to indulge himself. He went into the bathroom to get everything ready.

 

_A fresh pack of razor blades_. Check. _Plasters_. Check. _Spray Disinfectant_. Check. _Paper towels_. Check.

 

Sherlock sat down on the tub and pulled up his sleeve. Short bright red cuts stood out against his pale skin. John had been too busy with work and Rosie to notice he was wearing long sleeves all the time. 

 

He’d been engaging in his favorite form of “ **relief** ” on and off since he returned from the dead. It was the only thing he could think to do when he wasn’t high. 

 

He removed one of the blades from the case and pressed it to his skin. He looked away as the edge of the blade cut into his skin. He couldn’t stand to look. It wasn’t the sight of blood that was putting him off. It was the thought of what he was doing. It was the thought of how people would react if they ever found out. 

 

Sherlock Holmes. A _self-harmer_. Oh, the press would love that. 

 

He kept going. He pushed the blade deeper and deeper into his skin. A stream of blood ran from the cut and down his arm. He felt sick to his stomach as he noticed it out of the corner of his eye. 

 

**Blood.**

 

Something so vital to life and he was spilling it all over his clean bathroom floor. 

 

The floor? Had he really bled that much?

 

He quickly pulled the blade away from his skin and sat it down on the edge of the tube. It would be disposed of later. He quickly grabbed a paper towel and held it to his arm trying to get the blood to stop. 

 

Tears filled his eyes as he thought about what he was doing. He was hurting himself because he felt lost and was too scared to admit to anyone. Scared? He wasn’t allowed to be scared of anything. 

 

After a moment he pulled the paper towel away. The bleeding had stopped but the cut still looked rather bad. He quickly picked up the disinfection spray and applied to his arm. He hissed from the sting it caused. 

 

He opened the plaster and applied it to the cut. The surface just covered the wide cut. 

 

Sherlock sighed and quickly pulled his sleeve down. He didn’t want to look at it anymore

 

It was just a reminder that he was screwed up. He was a freak. He was a freak that locked himself in the bathroom and cut his arms. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t alone. He had friends. He had people to go to.

 

So why was he resorting to something he hadn’t done since he was sixteen?

 

He stood up. He needed to clean the floor and put away his supplies. As long as he cleaned up after himself no one would ever know. No one needed to know. No one would know. 

 

Could he really hide it from John? 

 

He was a doctor after all. No doubt he had the training to spot self-harmers during his years at medical school. 

 

It sounded like a bit of a challenge to Sherlock. It would be hard to hide his self-harm from a doctor. He would have to work hard. 

 

How long could he get away with it? Would John ever notice? 

 

**No.** He wouldn't notice.

His friend might be a doctor but he didn’t pay attention to a lot of things. He wouldn’t notice the packs of razor blades under the sink, the fact that Sherlock was wearing long sleeves all the time, or the way he gently touched his own arms right after cutting.

 

Who would notice those things?  


	2. Chapter 2

John knew something was going on. He would have to be stupid not to. Sherlock was acting strangely. At first, he thought the man was just adjusting to living with an infant. As time went on he saw that didn’t seem to be the case.

 

Sherlock loved caring for Rosie. He had no problem getting up and taking care of her in the middle of the night. John was grateful for it. He was often too tired to get up and tend to her. 

 

So what was it?

 

John tried to make a mental list of all the odd things that were going on with Sherlock. 

 

Despite the warming weather, Sherlock wore long sleeves all the time. He was having  **intense** mood swings. He was spending an increasing amount of time alone in his room. 

 

Sometimes Sherlock would walk around the flat grumbling to himself and be looking rather grumpy. Then without explanation, he would slip off to his bedroom. He would emerge some time later with a smile on his face and start playing with Rosie.

 

It was so strange. 

 

He was sure Sherlock wasn’t using drugs. He didn’t act that way when he was high. This was different. He couldn’t put his finger on why it was different but he just knew it was. 

 

Was he overreacting? Perhaps but he determined to find out what it. If he was overreacting and it turned out nothing was going on then he could move on. 

 

It was nearly a week before John got his chance to figure out what was going on with his friend.

 

John had just returned from a trip to the grocery store. He placed the bags on the kitchen table and began to put things away. To his surprise, Sherlock rose from his chair and started to help him. 

 

Good mood today.

 

“I’m cooking chicken for dinner tonight,” John explained. “Please don’t do any experiments on it. I remember what happened to that lovely chicken I bought last week. I didn’t even know you could dissolve meat that quickly.”

 

“I won’t,” Sherlock said with a chuckle. 

 

He remembered how angry it had made John. While he didn’t mind annoying his friend he didn’t want him mad at him. Sherlock picked up a box of cereal and moved to put it away. It seemed like John had the same idea.  The two bumped against each other. 

 

The bump wasn’t a hard one. It just caused John’s elbow to gently touch his friend’s arm. Despite the soft touch, his friend let out a howl of pain. He dropped the box to the ground and his hand up to gently touch the injured arm. 

“Sherlock?” John asked in shock. “Are you alright?”

 

Sherlock nodded leaning against the table. He had cut his arm while John was out. It was a rather deep cup that didn’t want to stop bleeding. As Sherlock held his arm he felt something warm trickling through his shirt sleeve.

 

**Blood.**

 

Blood was seeping through the plaster he had applied and his shirt sleeve. John’s eyes widened in shock at the sight before him. It seemed to him that a large amount of blood was soaking the fabric. 

 

“What happened?” John asked pulling up a chair for Sherlock. 

 

“I nicked myself earlier,” Sherlock said.

 

It wasn’t exactly a lie. 

 

“Sit down,” the doctor instructed. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

 

Sherlock felt panic overtake him. What would John say when he saw the marks? He would know where they came from. What would he do? 

 

By the time John returned to the room carrying the small plastic case he was sweating from the fear of what was going to happen. He knew John would end it. He would take away his only way of dealing with life.

 

“Roll up your sleeve,” John instructed opening the case. 

 

Sherlock didn’t want to. He didn’t want John to see. 

 

Despite this, he rolled up his sleeve. John took a deep breath when he saw the damage done to Sherlock’s arm. Cuts of different lengths covered Sherlock’s arm. All were in different stages of healing. The cut in question was covered with a plaster but blood was leaking out around it and through it. 

 

_ Doctor Mode. Stay in Doctor mode. _

 

He retrieved a thicker plaster from the kit. He changed out the bandaging as quickly as he could. The cut looked fresh and clean but rather deep. They both remained silent as John threw away the trash and closed the box.

 

“Are there any more?” John questioned.

 

“No,” Sherlock answered. “Just this arm.”

 

“How long?” John questioned noticing how panicked Sherlock seemed to be.

 

There were things he needed to know but he didn’t want to upset Sherlock anymore. He would keep the questioning as basic and fast as possible.

 

“Since I came back,” Sherlock answered pulling down his blood covered sleeve. 

 

“Any before that?” the doctor asked.

 

“Yes,” he answered. “But that was a long time ago when I was a teenager.”

 

Guilt filled John. He had done this. His anger had caused Sherlock to resort to self-mutilation. That had to be the case. 

 

“Alright,” he said. “We’re done. Go put on a clean shirt.”

 

What? That was it? No lecture? 

  
He stared at his doctor with a look of surprise. 

 

“This isn’t something that gets better overnight,” John explained when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face. “If I lecture you and take your blades you’ll just buy more and hide it better. I’m here for you. I want to check your cuts from time to time and I beg of you to use new blades every time. You’ve shown me and that’s a big step.”

 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. Of course, he would use new blades. He didn’t want to risk using an infection. He felt his body relax at John’s words. He wasn’t going to force him to stop. 

 

“You’ve stopped this before,” John explained. “You said yourself you were a teenager the last time this happened. I'll help you stop again.”

 

Sherlock nodded and rose from the seat. At least he knew John wasn’t going explode at him about it. He needed to be alone. He couldn't stand to see that worried look on John's face anymore. He quickly headed off to this bedroom. 

 

John sighed dropping down on to the empty chair. What was he going to do? He was a doctor. He couldn’t let Sherlock cut himself up like that. Yet, he knew if he pushed too hard the detective would just lock himself away.

 

He couldn’t do that. He had to keep an eye on him and treat his injuries and hope things got better. He had helped cause this mess and he was going to help fix it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t be doing what he was doing. He had such an understanding friend. When he got the urge to cut he should have gone to him. He would have distracted him. He would have talked to him about what he was feeling. Despite all that he didn’t reach out. He couldn't talk to John about what he was feeling.

 

He waited until John headed out to do a run to Tesco. He made sure Rosie was safe in her bed before slipped into the bathroom. He grabbed his supply bag from under the sink and settled down on the edge of the bathtub. 

 

The detective slowly slid up his shirt sleeve. He frowned at the sight of his arm. He was quickly running out of space. He didn’t like cutting over older cuts or scars. It always seemed to hurt more. He would have to move to his legs soon. He didn’t want to but he didn’t have a choice. 

 

He opened his bag and took out a box of razor blades. He carefully slid one out. He set his supplies back down on the floor. Sherlock felt his hand began to shake as he placed the blade against his skin. 

 

He took a deep breath before breaking the thin layer of skin. He looked away as the blood oozed out the cut and over the blade. His body began to shake harder and a wave of nausea washed over him. He was so lost in the experience that he didn’t hear someone walking around the flat.

 

“Sherlock have you seen…?” John started as he opened the door to the bathroom.

 

Sherlock jumped in surprise causing the blade to dig in deeper. He yelped in pain and let the blade fall to the floor. 

 

“I’m sorry!” John said dropping down next to him. “Are you alright?”

 

“Do I look alright?” Sherlock growled picking up a flannel.

 

He held the flannel against the cut as he hissed in pain. He wasn’t used to cutting himself that deep. He allowed John to lift the edge of the flannel and look the damage.

 

“This should have stitches,” the doctor explained. “Please let me fix this.”

 

“I don’t need stitches,” Sherlock said rolling his eyes. “It’ll be alright.”

 

“I won’t make you stop,” John said. “But I will insist the cuts are taken care of. Please just go to the clinic with me so I can fix this. I promise nothing more than that will happen.”

 

Sherlock didn’t want to go to the clinic. He didn’t want John or anyone touching cuts. He couldn't stand the thought of John staring at his arm. He couldn’t stand the look of worry on his face.

 

“Fine,” the detective said. “I only want you looking at them.”

 

“Of course,” John said stepping out of the bathroom. “Mrs. Hudson! Can you watch Rosie a bit?”

 

Sherlock sighed getting to his feet. He knew John wasn’t going to let up on him. He **HAD** to get the cut stitched. He quickly picked up his supplies and put them back in the sink. He didn’t care that he was dripping blood all over the bathroom. 

 

He didn’t want Mrs. Hudson to see. He could never let ANYONE see. If anyone saw they would judge him. They would think differently about him. He shivered at the thought of Anderson finding out. That man would never let him live it down.

 

\--

 

Sherlock didn’t watch as John stitched him up. His doctor had insisted on numbing him up before he started the job. He could handle getting stitched up without drugs. He was the one who did the damage in the first place.

 

“Sorry about this,” John said. “I shouldn’t have just run into the bathroom like that.”

 

“What did you need anyway?” Sherlock questioned. 

 

“What?” the doctor asked as if he was confused by the question.

 

“You sounded like you were looking for something,” the detective explained. 

 

“Oh,” he said turning his attention back to the stitching. “My wallet. I walked out of the flat without it.”

 

“Did you find it?” he asked. 

 

John frowned. He knew what Sherlock was doing. He was talking about mundane things because he didn’t want to talk about his self-harm. 

 

“Yes,” the doctor said finishing up his work. “I take it you don’t want to talk about this.”

 

“If I wanted to talk about it I would talk about it,” Sherlock said starting to get annoyed.

 

“Your arm looks really bad,” John said pulling Sherlock’s sleeve down. “Maybe you should think about talking to someone about this.”

 

Talk to someone? 

 

Sherlock turned his nose up at the idea. He didn’t need some... _therapist_...telling him what he should think and feel. 

 

“I’m getting worried,” John admitted taking off his gloves. 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look at John. He was causing his friend pain. That fact made the urge to cut himself so much stronger. He deserved to be punished for causing his friend pain. 

 

“You don’t need to be worried,” he explained as he opened his eyes.

 

“I’m here you know,” the doctor said. “We’re in a clinic. Don’t think of me as your friend. Think of me as your doctor.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that thought. Yes. They were in a clinic. John wasn’t his friend at that moment. He was his doctor. He should be able to tell him what was going on him. 

 

He knew it was a stupid mental trick that would work on a child but he liked the idea. 

 

“Dr. Watson,” he said playing with the idea. “As you can see I have a bit of a problem.”

 

“Do you know why you’re doing this?” the doctor asked rolling his chair closer to Sherlock.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said nodding. 

 

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

 

“I hurt a friend,” he said. “I guess this is my way of dealing with it.”

 

John felt his heart drop into his shoes at those words. Sherlock was doing this because he had hurt him? That had to be what he was talking about.

 

“Have you talked to your friend about what you’re feeling?” the doctor questioned trying to stay in character.

 

“No,” he said shaking his head. “I don’t think I can.”

 

“Why not?” John asked.

 

“I hurt my friend,” Sherlock repeated. “I deserve to be punished for hurting him. If I tell him that I’m hurting myself because of him he’ll try to comfort me. He’ll lie to me and tell me I don’t deserve it.”

 

“Try and talk to your friend,” the doctor said. “Maybe talking to him will help with your guilt. I’m sure your friend wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

 

“I guess I’ll give it a try,” Sherlock said gently touching his recent cut through his shirt sleeve. 

 

“Good,” John said. “I’m sure you know how to look after your cuts. Keep it dry and clean. If it starts looking or feeling strange come back in and see me.”

 

“Sure thing Doctor,” Sherlock said getting down from the table. “Thanks for looking after me.”

 

“I’m just doing my job,” John said. 

 

As he watched Sherlock put his jacket back on he tried not to feel guilty. Sherlock was hurting himself because of him. It was just as he suspected. He’d been too hard on him after his return. He had only done it to protect him. 

 

Oh well. He was going to have to put his guilt aside and focus on helping his friend.

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

To Sherlock’s surprise, he felt a bit better after his talk with John. He didn’t really tell him much but he had opened up slightly.  Just letting someone else know about his “bad habit” made him feel better. It was like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, if only slightly. 

 

Why did he feel better? No doubt John would blame himself for the situation. Why did he feel good about causing his friend pain? He knew opening up could be good but was it really good if it caused John pain? It seemed a bit selfish of him. 

 

Sherlock had taken to cutting his legs since there was no room on his arm. He would give the limb a chance to heal but return to it later. Cutting on his legs was better anyway since it was easier to hide. 

 

John did everything he could no to stare at Sherlock’s covered arm and draw attention to what he was thinking. He knew he had to do something to help him. Sherlock was suffering because of him. What if Sherlock went too deep and accidentally killed himself? He couldn’t shake that fear. The detective had always tried to keep him safe. There was no way he could let something happen to him that he could have prevented. 

 

He’d been so cruel to him when he returned. Of course, who could blame him for the way he reacted? John had lost his best friend or at least he thought he had. He truly believed he was  **dead** . He’d pushed Sherlock away after Mary’s death. He had  **blamed** him. He never really stopped to think about how it would affect Sherlock. 

 

The good doctor couldn’t sleep as the thoughts rolled around in his head. He hadn’t slept much since discovering Sherlock’s problem. Every time he closed his eyes he pictured Sherlock cutting into his flesh.

 

John needed to check on Sherlock. He walked down the stairs from his bedroom. Perhaps seeing him safe and sound would relax. He wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing he was alright. Sherlock didn’t seem to be suicidal but the doctor couldn’t be sure. His friend was a hard person to figure out. 

 

He opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom and peeked inside. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that Sherlock was asleep in his bed. The detective could use all the sleep he could get. Sherlock was lying in bed with his covers bunched around his waist. His mobile lay forgotten near his hand. Clearly, he had fallen asleep while using the device. John walked over to the bed and picked up the phone. He quietly placed it on the bedside table. His eyes drifted down to Sherlock’s exposed arm. 

 

Sherlock was wearing a short sleeve shirt exposing most of his cuts. John’s eyes glanced up and down the cuts and tried to see if there were any new ones. It was hard to tell because his arm looked like a patchwork of cuts. At least it seemed like the stitched cut was healing nicely. 

 

“Uh…” Sherlock moaned rolling onto his side.

 

John took a step back. He didn’t want to risk waking him. He slipped out of the bedroom and carefully shut the door. At least he would be able to sleep. 

 

\--

 

Sherlock tried to talk to John several times after that night at the clinic but he couldn’t. Every time he would try his mouth would dry up and he would find himself unable to speak. Of course, he knew he needed to find the ability to speak to him. John was worrying himself sick. 

 

Some nights when he was caught between sleep and awake he would hear John checking on him. He knew the doctor was just trying to help but John was actually making things worse. Sherlock knew he was causing his friend to lose his mind worrying about him. The guilt that caused him he only made him cut more. 

 

The one thing Sherlock was grateful for was that John had kept this between them. He knew his friend wouldn’t tell anyone about this. He hoped that it would have stayed that way forever. Yet, a surprise visitor took that hope away. 

 

John had just been in to check on him and Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He pushed back his blankets and walked into the bathroom. A little cutting would take the edge off and he would be able to sleep. Just a little cutting. That wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

 

Sherlock collected his box of supplies from under the sink fusing a bit with the child lock. He sat down on the edge of the tub as he rolled up the leg of his pajama pants. A dozen angry cuts greeted him. He brought the blade up and started to push it in. 

 

Normally, he would have looked away from the cutting. That time he didn’t. Sherlock forced himself to look at the cut and watch the blood flow down his leg. He deserved what he was doing to himself. He had caused his friend a world of pain and was still doing it. 

 

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice broke his focus.

 

“What?” Sherlock called in surprise.

 

While he wasn’t sure of the exact time he knew it was past three in the morning. 

 

“Inspector Lestrade is here,” his landlady called.  “He says that it’s important.”

 

“I’ll be right there,” Sherlock answered.

 

Sherlock quickly cleaned up the cut and put on a plaster. He quickly put away his supplies under the sink. His legs felt wobbly as he stood up. Since he had started cutting he had experienced numbness and pain in his arm. Once he spread the cutting to his leg he had started feeling the same things. No doubt he was doing nerve damage. 

 

He walked into the living to find Lestrade sitting in John’s chair waiting for him.

 

“Sorry for coming in the middle of the night,” Greg said standing up. “But I really need you.”

 

“Not a problem,” Sherlock said walking towards his chair. 

 

Sherlock was half to his chair when he felt his leg give out. It was as if his whole leg went numb. He fell to the floor with a yelp.

 

“Sherlock!” Greg said rushing to his side. “Are you alright?” 

 

The inspector helped his friend to his chair. Greg quickly got down on his knees to inspect Sherlock’s leg. It didn’t look like it was hurt in any way. He started to pull up the pant leg to make sure there wasn’t something he had missed.

 

“No!” Sherlock said but it was already too late.

 

Lestrade had already pulled his pant leg up enough to see the angry red cuts along his skin. Greg looked at the cuts with shock. He had seen these marks on hundreds of bodies before. They were marks he never expected to see on Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock pushed his friend’s hands away and pushed down the fabric. 

 

“What did you need?” Sherlock asked. 

 

Greg didn’t know what to do. He had come to Sherlock with a very important case that involved children. Yet, he was clearly going through something. 

 

“John knows,” he explained seeing the worried look on Greg’s face. “Let’s just let this go for now. What did you need?”

 

John knew? Well, that was good news. Greg decided to put it aside for now. 

 

“We have three missing kids,” Lestrade explained. “We think their father has them and is going to kill them. We need you to help find them.”

 

Sherlock nodded getting to his feet. The game was on. 


	5. Chapter 5

The case was solved quickly and within three hours the children were back in their mother’s arms. The youngest didn’t look any older than Rosie and the oldest was no older than eight. They were such delicate creatures caught situations, not of their own making. Children are shaped by experiences and the world around them. Would they be changed by the trauma they had just experienced? 

 

As the sun rose above London Sherlock headed back to Baker Street. His mind drifted to little Rosie. Even though she was not his own child he wanted to make sure she had the most wonderful upbringing she could ever have. He never wanted her to feel pain, shame, or sadness. Of course, he knew that was impossible. The world was a cruel place and would dump those feelings and many more on her. 

 

Sherlock never wanted her to have to resort to things he did to make it through the day. Every day seemed like it lasted for an eternity and all he could do was find something to make it bearable. Moments of happiness and joy were far apart and didn’t happen often. After John’s arrival things got better. It was amazing to have someone around him who didn’t think he was a freak. It was like...finally seeing light at the end of a dark tunnel that you didn’t think ever ended. Rosie made it even better. The child gave him something to look forward to. She gave him a reason to try and be a better person. After all, he wanted to be a good role model for the young girl growing up in his house.

 

Sherlock had been given a responsibility that was both enjoyable and overwhelming. He was shaping Rosie. 

 

His mind drifted to his cutting as he walked into the sitting room. Self-harm was an unhealthy habit that could damage his body in many ways. It wasn’t something he would want Rosie to engage in. It was dangerous, embarrassing, and additive. 

 

Getting caught by Lestrade had been horrible and he didn’t want to go through it again. The look of shock on his friend’s face had shaken him to the core. The Inspector knew what he was doing and was, no doubt, judging him for it. Oh, Lestrade was worried about him but he would judge him and think differently about him. He would never see Sherlock the same way again.

 

This had to stop. It had to stop before more people found out. Sherlock couldn’t live with the thought of people staring at him and judging him for his actions. What would his friends think? Would they think it was drama or a cry for attention? This was something he didn’t want to deal with it. He wouldn’t deal with it. 

 

Sherlock walked into the bathroom and retrieved his blades from under the sink. He walked over the lockable plastic bin where he kept the remains of experiments and dumped the blades the inside. 

 

Regretted gripped him the seconds the blades slid inside. What had he done? He threw away his only way of coping with his guilt-ridden mind. 

 

It was for the better. He just needed to get through the first few days and everything would be fine. Everything would be fine.

 

-

 

The rest of the day wasn’t bad. John had to work that day so Sherlock had his hands full taking care of Rosie. She was cutting a tooth and was a bit fussy even with the pain medicine. Sherlock hadn’t been allowed much time to think about hurting himself. 

 

“Greg told me about what happened this morning,” John explained as they bent down to pick up Rosie’s toys.

 

“What?” Sherlock asked in shock clutching a small stuffed hedgehog in his hands.

 

“Yea,” John said dumping the toys into a small bin near the couch. “He texted me. He was pretty worried.”

 

He didn’t know what to think of that. Part of him had hoped that Lestrade would let it go. Of course, it wasn’t surprising that Lestrade had gone to John. They were good friends after all. 

 

“Tell him he doesn’t have to worry,” he said placing the hedgehog into the bin. “I threw my blades out this morning,”

 

“Really?” John asked looking at him with wide eyes. “What made you decide to do that?”

 

“It’s time to stop I guess,” he said. “I can’t keep doing this.”

 

John frowned at the news. He knew he should be happy. After all, he did want Sherlock to stop hurting himself but this seemed off. It was rare for self-harmers to just stop cold turkey. It was a long road that often involved many fallbacks and missteps.  He knew his friend was often hard on himself and wouldn’t take slip-ups very well. The guilt of a slip up could cause him to go into a complete relapse. 

 

“I’m happy that you made that choice,” the doctor said. “If you feel the urge to...give in... come and talk to me. If I’m not there reach out to someone else. You don’t need to do this alone.”

 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. He thought he could reach out to John. His friend had been wonderful and supportive through this and everything else Sherlock had drug him through. They should be able to tell each other anything. 

 

“I’m going to bed,” Sherlock said desperately trying to get away from the emotional situation. 

 

“Oh, that’s right,” John said remembering about Sherlock’s early morning case. “You had that case this morning. You must be tired.”

 

In reality, Sherlock wasn’t tired. Feeling tired was a rare thing for him. Usually, he slept more out of boredom than necessity. After changing for bed he climbed under the sheets even though he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping. He had too much on his mind.

 

After two hours of trying to get some sleep, he gave up. Sherlock pushed back the blankets and got out of his bed. He needed to do something to relieve his mind. Normally, he would have reached for his hidden box under the sink but it was no longer there. His blades were gone.

 

True panic was starting to set in. They were truly gone. There was no way he was going through the box he put them in to get them back. The box contained bits of broken glasses. 

 

Sherlock walked out to the sitting room. He was desperately looking for something that would reveal his stress. His eyes fell on a small bag sitting by John’s closed laptop. It contained John’s collection of pens and pencils he used while taking notes for cases. 

 

Was he really thinking about doing this? Yes, he was.

 

He walked over to the bag and opened it. Inside he found a collection of pens, pencils, and two sharpeners. Nervously, he took out one of the sharpeners. With the object clutched in his hands, he walked into the kitchen and retrieved a small screwdriver from the junk drawer. He undid the screw until the blade was free. He set the screwdriver down and picked up the blade.

 

The blade that he was holding his hand was still fairly sharp and looked clean. 

 

Sherlock walked into the bathroom and fetched his supplies from under the sink. He tried to get his shaking hands under control as he sat down on the edge of the tub.  He couldn’t even go twenty-four hours. What kind of weak person was he? 

 

He brought the blade to his arm and started pushing it in. The blade was a bit dull but it still cut through his skin without much effort. The feeling of it cutting through sent a wave of pain and relief through him. He was getting what he deserved and would able to quiet the demons screaming in his head. 

 

_ I beg of you to use new blades every time. _

 

John’s words burned into his mind. He knew what he was doing wasn’t a good idea. Desperation makes people do strange things.

 

Sherlock quickly pulled the blade away and looked down at the cut. What was he doing? He was using a blade out of a pencil sharpener that John used all the time. He tried to remember the last time he had a tetanus shot and let out a sigh. 

 

John would want him to do this safely. Using a dirty blade didn’t fit in that guideline. 

 

He put a plaster on before putting his things away. There was no way he wanted to face the music but he knew he had to.  Sherlock walked into the kitchen and placed the blade in the safety storage box. He needed to go to the A&E and get a tetanus shot. They would ask and a million questions but it had to do be done. If John found out he cut himself up with an old blade and didn’t take of it he would be beyond angry. 

 

Sherlock pulled on his coat and headed out of the flat. 

 


End file.
